Crackpot FM
by The Tin Dogs Bollocks
Summary: Elliott Tallulah Bentham isn't the brightest button in the box, but she knows that hearing voices through electrical appliances is weird. Especially when it's a guy telling her he's a time traveller and he needs her help to save the universe.
1. The Routine

**A/N: Okay, I've been working on this fic for months, and I'm finally posting it xD It is half finished, so it's not going to be another of my abandonment stunts. I guess I've been working up to this, cos it's a combination of a lot of things I've been writing recently (people who have been following all my stories will probably recognise random names and personalities xD). I had to get back into Doctor Who though, and the only way I could do it was with a brand spanking OC. She's not that new though. Well, she is, but just a bit xD

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**CRACKPOT FM**

**One:**

**The Routine**

'You know,' Elliott Tallulah Bentham mused aloud with one narrowed eye. 'I think this is probably the most intriguing substance on the whole planet. I mean… just look at it. It's fascinating.'

Her companion looked at the substance in the small, clear pot with a lot less enthusiasm than her and wrinkled her nose. 'Comes from cow's hooves, doesn't it?'

'That's another point,' Elliott nodded, pointing her spoon at her. 'Who came up with the idea of using cow's hooves to make such a delicious snack? I suppose they knocked about with the same kind of people who first realised they couldn't lick their elbows or could bite their toenails.' She prodded thoughtfully at the red substance. 'It's amazing what man can come up with.'

'So,' Taylor Marie Bentham, the older of the two, sighed uninterestedly, shifting in her seat. 'Does this mean that we have a new thing to add to the list of best ever manmade objects? It's probably goes something like concrete, plastic, sliced bread, bubble wrap and jelly.'

'Strawberry jelly.' Elliott corrected. 'Hartley's strawberry jelly.' She peered into the tub again. 'I mean, it's just… it's not solid, but it's not a liquid. Tip the tub and it looks like it hasn't set, but take off the lid and it's just the right jelly texture. Just amazing. I think it can even go before bubble wrap.'

Taylor sighed dramatically and made a big show about looking at her watch. She did that when the conversation wasn't directly about her. That was the thing about Taylor; she liked to be the centre of attention. In her world, if the subject didn't involve her in some shape or form, it wasn't worth talking about.

'Well I would just _love_ to sit here all day talking about the wonderfulness that is Hartley's strawberry jelly, but I actually have a job to get to.'

Elliott shot her a defensive frown. 'Why do you say that like I don't have a job? I have a job.'

Taylor just snorted and stood up out of her seat. 'Twenty hours a week in a pub. Yeah, you've got a great career going on there.' She grabbed his baby blue scarf from the back of the sofa and wrapped it around her neck in one swift motion. 'I don't know how we would pay the rent without you.'

Elliott's eyebrows drew even closer together. 'I pay my half. Don't twist your face at me because you got a stupid job. I told you that you would hate it there. You remember Ryan Carter? He worked there for three years before he went mental and crashed his car into the Post Office. I'm telling you, call centres drive people insane. It's a fact.'

'Is it really?' Taylor replied uninterestedly. 'Fabulous. Well if you're not too busy writing love poems to your jelly then you can sort out the kitchen. It's starting to stink.'

Before Elliott could try and persuade her that the mess was nothing to do with her, she had strode out of the room and was thumping around in the lobby. Elliott contemplated following and arguing her case, but she was comfortable and… well, frankly she was just too lazy. She returned her full attention to the ingenious creation that was strawberry jelly, and took her time finishing it off.

Elliott had not always been so lazy. It had crept up on her in her late teens and before she had even realised what was going on it had nestled quite comfortably into her personality and refused to budge. She had a strong feeling that it had a lot to do with her brief dabbling with a certain illegal relaxing herb between the ages of fifteen and seventeen, but in all honestly it didn't matter where this unexpected languor had sprouted. The fact was that it was there, and it was probably going to be around for a while. Until at least Mr Motivation returned to give her a well needed kick up the jacksy.

But for the moment she was content. A crappy job in a pub that provided her with just the right about of money to pay her rent and procure the occasional DVD from the bargain bin in the chemist. What else would a twenty-three year old university dropout ask for? Apart from a lifetime's supply of Hartley's strawberry jelly, of course. It had occurred to her that she was more than likely going to end up like the lonely, miserable, jobless alcoholics she served every other day at work, but that was probably a long time away. She had plenty of time to sort her life out before she got to that point.

With the jelly gone, she figured it was high time that she actually got up and did something. It was one o'clock now and she didn't start work until five, but if she remained in that armchair a moment longer she would either get too wrapped up in the _Jeremy Kyle Show_ or end up falling asleep. If either of those things happened then she probably wouldn't even make it to work. Jeremy Kyle had the same effect on her as a sudden high dose of morphine would.

When she reached the kitchen her nose immediately told her that Taylor hadn't been lying. She looked for the source of the putrid smell and eventually found the two black, decaying bananas festering away in the fruit bowl on the window ledge. Why the hell did Taylor insist on buying bananas? She never ate them and Elliott didn't like them. They made her tongue tingle. With a wrinkled nose, Elliott picked them up with the tips of her thumb and forefinger and allowed the putrid bananas to lead the way to the bin. Only when she got there, the bin was currently housing no space for moulding fruit.

'No room at the bin.' she muttered, and then instantly felt bitter that there had been no one around to hear her quip.

Elliott felt cheated. This is why she didn't approve of tidying or cleaning, because you always started off with something small and innocent; throwing away ranking bananas for instance – but it always turned into a bigger and smellier chore than you had originally intended it to be. She knew for a fact that the bin hadn't been emptied for over a week, and she also knew that the bin bag inside was ripped from where she had stuffed a pizza box inside yesterday. That meant as soon as she pulled it out her feet would be drenched in stinky rubbish juice and the smell would no doubt linger on her all day, no matter how much she washed. It didn't take her long to decide that it was probably Taylor's turn to take the bin out anyway, and instead she went out the back to dispose the bananas in the green wheelie bin out the back gate. When she returned from the perilous trek through overgrown weeds and shrubs that made their back garden look more like a part of the rainforest, she cast a quick glance over the pile of dirty dishes and decided they could wait.

Anyway, she was pretty sure Jeremy Kyle was starting.

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One of the most irritating ways to be woken up is by the sound of your mobile phone vibrating noisily on a hard surface. Elliott jerked awake, teeth already gritted in annoyance and fumbled for the infuriating source. She blinked blearily at the screen and then accidentally pushed the button depicting the little red phone receiver.

'Balls.' She muttered, squinting in a mole-like fashion as she searched for the person who woke her in her missed calls list. As she searched for the most recent call her mind slowly began to rearrange itself in a relatively normal order, which meant that by the time she found her last caller she had realised who it had probably been.

Penny. Bollocks. Work. Uber bollocks.

Elliott shot out of the comfy armchair and blundered towards the door, not bothering to check her face or, more importantly, her outfit, and ran out. She got half way down the garden path before she realised that she was still in her pyjamas.


	2. Tuning Out

**A/N: Thanks for the reviews :D Hope no one minds the short, slightly uneventful first few chapters - but it'll pick up soon. Promise :P  


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**Two:**

**Tuning Out  
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'I should sack you.' Penny Napes spat viciously. Cigarette smoke billowed out of her nostrils. There was no much of the stuff floating around her head that it actually looked like it was coming out of her ears. But that wasn't really a new look for her. She had to be the most stressed out landlady that _The Woodman House_ had ever had the displeasure to be run by. She was constantly puffing away on her knocked off _Regal_ cigarettes and lynching whoever ended the night with a till even five pence under what it should have been. This stressed out chain-smoking lifestyle that Penny lived did little to help her age gracefully. Her hair was like straw from the amount of times she dyed it (it was currently bleached blonde, with thick black and grey roots that were like spiders legs) and her skin shared an uncanny resemblance to old leather from the amount of time she spent at the tanning salon.

Elliott looked at her frazzled, weathered boss and decided that she had a point. She _should_ sack her. After all this was the fifth time in two weeks that she had fallen asleep and ended up late for work. One of those times she hadn't even made it in as she couldn't find her shoes (they eventually turned up behind the TV, but Elliott still had no clue how they got there). Anyone else would have sent her packing with her P45 in tow, but Penny didn't. Either she actually thought Elliott would get better, or she was just downright crackers.

'Well get inside you little troglodyte.' Penny snapped, jerking her head towards the doors of the pub in one sharp motion. 'Get in that cellar where you belong and start bringing up the _Stella_. They're not going to troop up here on their own. We don't all live in bloody Fantasia.'

As Elliott scurried past her and went inside, she decided that it was probably because the woman was crackers.

The interior of _The Woodman House_ had been due a makeover for about twenty years now. The wood panelling on the walls had various names and profanities carved into it and the bar was covered in burn marks, reminding everyone of a time when smokers didn't have to stand out in the harsh elements to slowly kill themselves. The carpet was stained with various alcoholic and bodily substances and almost black with trodden in chewing gum. In all honesty, it wasn't a very pleasant pub at all.

'Nice to see you made it in.'

Elliott glanced across the bar to see Chelsea Tanner sneering at her, leaning against the fridge with her podgy arms crossed over her ample bosom. She was looking particularly neon orange today, which didn't go well with her white bleached her and her slightly yellowed teeth.

'Bring the Stella up, yeah?' Elliott grunted, now all too willing to get down in the cellar and start the grunt work. Standing with this horrid specimen for too long made her feel nauseous.

'Are you sure you can manage that?' Chelsea smirked. 'It's not too complicated for you, is it?'

Elliott shot her a mildly irritated look but didn't retort. Chelsea was a bitch; a _tough_ bitch. She could easily smear the insides of Elliott's skull all over the bar if she wanted to. She had that slightly psychotic look about her, with her flat, glassy blue eyes and her round, hard face. The fact Elliott had also seen her beating a six foot tall guy with her stiletto shoe didn't dull any of the intimidation she felt.

'Why are we both on shift today?' Elliott asked as she tucked her belongings away in the flimsy little cupboard behind the bar. She felt the need to start up some form of conversation in the few seconds she was there.

'Because Penny is a batshit old tramp.' Chelsea replied airily, regarding her freakishly long plastic talons. 'I don't know. Don't bother asking me.'

Elliott made a mental note of that and headed towards the cellar door, tripping on the corner of a curled, crusty old rug as she went. She ignored the malicious snort coming from the bleached beast behind the bar and managed to stumble through the door, almost going her length down the partially dilapidated staircase that led into the medieval-like cellar. The smell of stale alcohol, damp and something else unpleasant hit her immediately, but it was a welcomed change from Chelsea's cheap perfume.

Elliott carefully descended the stair case, wary of the way the steps creaked and groaned mournfully beneath her feet. Once at the bottom she walked right past the piled up crates of Stella and perched herself on a beer barrel, proceeding to take her mobile phone out of her pocket. A ten minute breather wouldn't go amiss. And it wasn't as if anyone was actually expecting her to do anything anyway. That was the real reason Chelsea was here; it was because Elliott was about as useful as a one legged man at an arse kicking contest.

Taking the nice, well earned (at least in her eyes) break she scrolled through her old text messages, reading the ones from months ago that she had no recollection of ever receiving. Apparently at some point she had left a half eaten bagel in the sink that had forced Taylor to send five all-capped text messages. Also there was another from an unfamiliar message telling her to move her car. Strange because Elliott didn't have a car. And one more that simply said '_You're blocking my signals.'_

Elliott frowned at the last one. That one was pretty random. Curious, she checked the date, and the number. But that turned out to be impossible, because there was no date or phone number. Bemused, Elliott tried to wrack her brains to when she could have gotten that message, but that was difficult considering she found it hard to remember yesterday let along all those months ago. When she (expectedly) drew a blank, she just snorted and went to delete it. But she was halted as her phone vibrated in her hand.

_You're blocking my signals. You need to shut down your communications. It's important._

Elliott blinked at the message that had just appeared on her screen. No text window, just white letters on a blank screen. She looked at it for a long moment, then scowled. 'Bloody phone.' She muttered, banging it hard off the barrel beneath her. The bash probably did more harm than good, but Elliott was the kind of person who believed everything got better with a good bash. At least as far as electrical equipment went. Well it worked for Fonzie.

The message was gone, but now she had a pretty spectacular chip on the side of her phone. She muttered irritably and rubbed at it as if it would magically disappear. It didn't, of course, which only irritated her further. Before she could give it another bash to try and fix the chip, or at least bang in a matching one on the other side, there was a loud invasive thump on the cellar door.

'Unless you've fell down those stairs and broken your neck you should be back up here right now, Elliott!' Penny barked from the other side.

Elliott slipped off the barrel and hurried to the stacks of Stella. 'Coming!' she called, and then muttered; 'You bloody puppy eater.'

She pushed her phone in her pocket, missing another message that appeared on the screen, but only briefly.

_This is the Doctor, and I need you to shut down. Lives are at stake._


	3. Whispers In The Static

**Three:**

**Whispers In The Static**

The only way to describe Elliott's seven hour shift in _The Woodman Arms_ would be to say that it probably made water boarding seem like some kind of relaxing beauty treatment session. The drunkards had been out in force, and not just the pleasant chatty drunks – Elliott got along with them just fine. No, these were the grabby, drooling drunks that were like perverted zombies, although they most _certainly_ didn't want you for your brains.

Elliott wasn't a particularly stunning girl; she had black hair that reached down to just below her shoulders – straight from the roots but kinked of its own accord about half way down. She thought it looked like she had a bin bag draped over her head most of the time. Her skin was just normal and boring – she wasn't pale, but stay out in the sun too long and she would turn beetroot. Her round dark green eyes were framed with thick black eyelashes and seemed to remind most people of a particularly stunned deer, but Elliott did tend to look stunned a lot of the time. She dressed... well... _comfortably_, was probably the best word to use. Jeans that had usually had a vacation from the washing machine for a week or so. A casual (usually) red, knee-length jersey dress that looked like nothing more than an oversized t-shirt. Black shirt over the top of that – usually her work shirt. Flip flops on her feet. Comfortable and easy to get into.

But, as always, with a couple of pints of John Smith's down their neck the old farts in the pub immediately thought every woman was an Angelina Jolie clone. Elliott's rear still hurt from where some giant, bald Mr Potato head lookalike had smacked it like she was some kind of race horse. So she was grateful to get out of the lecherous grabs and leers and the evil glares of her co-worker Chelsea. In all honesty it was Chelsea who worried her. She had that kind of gleam in her eye that she would try and choke you with some concealed piano wire if you kept your back to her for too long.

Elliott made it through her front door, blinking blearily, and dumped her bag on the floor in the right spot to trip up anyone who tried to enter after her. Which would be Taylor. Usually now she would go into the kitchen, eat the easiest thing available (which would usually be a _Pot Noodle_ and a packet of _Space Raiders_) , and then crash on the couch and watch something unbearable like _Worst A&E Ever_ and _Spoilt Brats Throw Hissy Fits_. But after that shift she couldn't even make a detour to the toilet, so she dragged herself into the living room and fell face first onto the couch.

After dozing there for about ten minutes, she finally summed up the energy to turn her head and reach out for the TV remote. There was a terrifying moment where it nearly slipped from her fingers and fell miles down to the floor, but she managed to get a firm grip and mash the red power button with her thumb. A second later and the radio turned on.

Elliott frowned, looking towards the small, cow-print portable radio on the window ledge. She peered curiously at the remote in her hand, wondering if Taylor had bought one of those fancy all-inclusive remotes. If she had then awesome; especially if it was the kind that opened curtains and stuff. She searched for a button that might do that.

The radio crackled, losing signal from whatever bass heavy pop song had been playing when it had magically turned on. Elliott pressed the power button again, but it didn't turn off.

Great. That meant she had to get up.

With a grunt she rolled off the couch, landing clumsily on the floor before hauling herself up and moving across the room. She reached out to turn the dial, but something stopped her. A faint sound in the static. It almost sounded like...

'_zzzt...Oh... blast!'_

Elliott cocked her head and fiddled with the tuner. It was probably just some random radio story, but if there was nothing on the TV it might be worth listening to. At least then she wouldn't have to use her eyes.

_'Zzzzz... oh that's izzzzz..zzt... There? Come on...zzzz... someone's there!'_

On second thoughts, maybe not. If it was just some guy having a stress – which it certainly sounded like – it might just rile her up further. She didn't want to have to deal with stressful or thought provoking things. She just wanted to watch something dumb and mindless. It was a shame Big Brother wasn't on anymore.

'Bugger that,' she muttered. 'I'll just bang on a DVD.'

'_Oi!'_ the voice on the radio yelled, clearer than it had been a moment ago. '_Who's that?'_

Elliott chuckled. 'Your mother.' She mumbled, going to turn it off.

'_My what? Who is this? I don't appreciate _your mother_ jokes, y'know. They're crude and immature.'_

Elliott hand froze above the radio, eyes widening. That had to be a coincidence, unless they invented some kind of two way radio while she had been at work today. Although a two way radio would technically be a phone, wouldn't it? So why bother building one into an actual radio?

'Um...' Elliott paused, feeling a little silly. 'Hello?'

'_Yes, hello, finally,'_ the radio-voice sighed in exasperation. '_It's good to know I'm getting through to someone with at least half a brain. Now who is this?'_

Elliott frowned, trying to recall if she had drank anything at work. She didn't think so. 'Are you talking to me?' she tested.

_'What? Oh...'_ Another impatient sigh. '_Who do you think I'm talking to? Look, do you have a superior around or something? I need to talk to someone about your outgoing signals. I have no idea what technology you're running wherever you are, but it's managing to put a lockdown on my Tardis, and I can tell you now that that is not an easy thing to do. Impossible even. So, Miss whoever you are, can you go and get someone who can speak in sentences and not questions?'_

Elliott stared at the radio. She hadn't been drinking, but apparently she had suffered major brain damage at some point today. Maybe Chelsea had smacked her with a beer bottle or something and the force had made her forget it happened. She felt the back of her head for any bumps or dried blood, but found nothing.

'_Hello?'_ the voice demanded impatiently.

Swallowing hard, Elliott picked up the radio in both hands. She held it at arm distance and like it was some precious antique that was worth millions. She hesitated, cleared her throat, and whispered; 'Is this God?'

'Elliott, what the _hell_ are you doing?'

At the sound of the new voice, Elliott shrieked and dropped the radio. It did a spectacular twirl and hit the floor hard, power immediately cutting out. She whirled around, wide eyed, to see her sister standing in the doorway with a frown on her face. At twenty-two Taylor was older than her only by a year, but she looked a lot more mature. She was similar in appearance to Elliott; only her hair was cropped and straightened, and she wore skirts and heels and all that kind of stuff. Elliott didn't understand that. It looked uncomfortable.

'I think God is trying to talk to me through the radio.' Elliott said, still feeling a little lightheaded.

Taylor looked at her impassively before cocking one eyebrow. 'I thought you were an atheist?'

'Well I didn't say which God.' Elliott replied with a slight shrug. 'Could have been Buddah or... I dunno...' She paused and winced. 'Vishnu? Although he had a British accent.'

Taylor pointed a finger at her. 'You're insane.' She stated, and left the doorway. 'And please don't leave your bag in the middle of the floor, Elliott. I nearly broke my neck. I sometimes wonder why I agreed to move in with you at all.'

Elliott glanced down at the radio suspiciously before pushing it with her foot. It didn't turn on. No one tried to speak to her. But still, she felt uneasy being in the same room as it so she scampered after Taylor, needing the company.


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